


Save You (From Your Old Ways)

by purpjools



Series: Human Hazbin Roommates AU [13]
Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Crossdressing, Daddy Kink, Family, Filming, Human Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), Human Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel), Implied Sexual Coercion, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Leather Kink, M/M, Nipple Play, Piercings, References to Pornographic Paraphernalia, everyone is human
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:01:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26950339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purpjools/pseuds/purpjools
Summary: Meeting the parents is a relationship milestone for most couples.However, most couples do not consist of a nefarious radio personality and his impetuous boyfriend. And when the parent in question is the head of a rival criminal organization.This is sure to go swimmingly.
Relationships: Alastor/Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel)
Series: Human Hazbin Roommates AU [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1699558
Comments: 61
Kudos: 193





	1. The Place Where You Used to Live

“No, ya goddamn pervert, we are not fucking hanging that up there!”

“Why not? It’s art, my dear Husker! We could all stand to be a bit more cultured!”

“Al, ya goddamn…it’s _porn_! It’s literally porn of your boyfriend splattered like a Pollock painting, for fuck’s sake!”

“Or _art_ , my friend. Isn’t the composition wonderful? So avant-garde!”

“The composition-Al! This is not art. The fucking Mona Lisa is art. The Birth of Venus is art. This. This is _bukkake_.”

“Different strokes! So they say.”

“Oh my god. No, ya sick fuck. We are _not_ hanging up your personal porn collection in this fucking house and I mean it. If Niffty’s parents or anyone in the fucking world show up, then it’s on you when they go blind, and I ain’t about to let that shit happen!”

Alastor sniffs. “Philistine.”

Husk rolls his eyes but breathes out a sigh as Alastor props up the canvas next to the couch. He sits down, prim as ever, crossing his legs. His foot bobs up and down as he waits for Angel to finish getting ready.

Husk takes a swig of his wine.

One of the reps swung by last week and gifted the bar with boxes of Cabernet Sauvignon from a semi-famous distributor. Rosie offered him a case, likely knowing that Alastor would partake, and Husk, of course, accepted. He risks a glance at his friend.

Right now, it looks like Alastor needs a glass. Husk suggests as much, but he waves him off.

“No, thank you. I’m perfectly fine, my friend. Never better! In fact, peachy keen!”

Husk just stares at him, judging him silently as his friend lies through his teeth. Alastor smiles shakily. Their new pet, Andouille, ambles out from his resting spot next to the pig. He woofs at Alastor, likely cottoning on to his owner’s anxiety, before wriggling his merry way up on the couch, aided by Alastor’s and Husk’s helping hands. As he settles in between them, Husk pats his flank while Alastor continues with his nervous tics.

Another swig. “Pal, it ain’t the end of the world, ya know. Meetin’ someone’s family ain’t all that bad. Not as scary as everyone makes it out to be. Hell, I was nervy as all get out, but Niffty’s parents turned out to be sweet as shit.”

Alastor laughs. “I’m not worried, Husker, if that’s what you’re getting at!” His eye twitches worryingly. “Besides, who said anything about murder?”

“What the fuck? No one said that, ya fucking luna-”

“Guys?”

They both turn at the meek voice. Husk chokes on his spit. Alastor, having done the same, wheezes loudly as he punches his chest with a fist.

Angel sighs.

* * *

Angel, sans makeup, sports a collared shirt, not unlike the ones Alastor regularly wears. Alastor has a sneaking suspicion that this may be one of the many that he’d bought recently. His trousers are fitted with a smart leather belt, and argyle socks complete the outfit.

He’s still breathtaking, thinks Alastor. But something is not quite right.

It’s not the wardrobe, or even the lack of makeup, because Angel wears and does whatever he pleases whenever the mood strikes him.

It clicks.

Angel, brashly confident and bold Angel, has fear and uncertainty written all over his face. His demeanor contrasts wildly with the man he and Husk are well-acquainted with. He looks to a fixed point beyond them, uncharacteristically demure.

This is the Angel that pleaded with Alastor when he arrived home to indelible marks on his shirt. This is the Angel that flinched whenever Alastor made an unprompted or sudden movement. This is the Angel that thought Alastor would ever leave him without a fight.

Not for the first time, Alastor curses Valentino. But this is the first time he considers directing some of his ire towards Angel’s father. Patting Andouille’s head once, he stands up and walks to him. Alastor wraps his arms around his body, relaxing as Angel rests his head on his shoulder.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs. “It’ll be,” he trails off.

Alastor abhors using cheap, two-bit words to placate. So instead, he says, “I’ll be there, dear. You’ll have me.”

Brushing away his hair, he kisses Angel’s forehead. “I promise.”

He almost forgets Husk’s presence until the other man sighs. Alastor cranes his neck, eager to hear what he has to say.

“Look, kid. Seeing your sperm donor is always nerve-wracking, especially one that’s as fucked up as yours.” He dumps the remainder of the wine into his mouth. “But Al’ll be there, like he said. He doesn’t take no shit from anyone, and he sure as fuck ain’t starting now, dad or no.”

“Eloquently put, Husker.”

“Aw, go fuck yourself.”

“Why would he when I’m here?”

Alastor brightens at Angel’s sass. He meets his eyes. They’re shining with an odd sort of expression that Angel wears when he thinks Alastor is not paying attention. Which is silly, Alastor thinks.

He’s always paying attention to Angel.

“That’s the spirit, darling! Now, let’s not dawdle. Time to rip off the flesh, so to speak!”

“ _Bandage_ , asshole. Fuck is wrong with you?”

“Same difference! And nothing that I’m aware of!”

Angel grabs his hand. He slides his fingers between the empty spaces.

“Babe, what about the wine and the food?”

Alastor smiles, swooping down to peck the back of his hand. “Already in the car, dear.”

He leads Angel to the door. With a push, he swings it open.

“Shall we?”

Angel nods, and Alastor helps him cross the threshold.

* * *

It’s a long drive to Angel’s childhood summer house, but they pass the time with radio, jokes, obnoxious singing, and anecdotes. Angel recalls the brighter parts of his yesteryears and shares tidbits of his previous life as the trees change color and species. Alastor regales him with stories of his youth, spinning tales as intricate and deft as a spider’s web.

Of which some of them Angel hopes he’s embellishing.

“So, babe. What were your family gatherings like? Mine were loud and noisy. An’ filled with the best Italian food on the fuckin’ planet.”

“Typical…ragtag ones. Nothing was considered a proper celebration without a fight.”

He flicks on the wipers as the rain pelts the glass. “Or a stabbing,” he mutters under his breath. “A festive garroting.”

Angel blinks. “Er, come again?”

“Nothing, dear,” he chirps, displaying his teeth. Angel frowns, unconvinced.

“Anyhoo! Yes, times were entertaining, to say the least, with my family! And that was only the tip of the iceberg. My father’s side, as you well know, is Cajun. I’m sure that explains everything.”

It didn’t. Not by a long shot.

“Mother’s side, my creole upbringing, was no less rowdy, but more, how do you say”-he lifts his hand off the gear stick to wave it absently-“ _occult_. In any case, I wish you could’ve met my cousin.”

“Swell guy, was he?”

“No! Absolutely not! He was reprehensible. Would’ve tried to snatch you from me. He was always envious of shinier, prettier things.”

“Then why would ya want me to meet him? Sounds like a psycho.”

“Why, so I could relive the justified _thrill_ of separating his soul from his body one more time!”

He laughs bawdily at his own joke, slapping the wheel in merriment. Angel manages a shaky smile in response. He isn’t aware if Alastor is joking or telling the truth, half the time, in regards to his past. Angel is sure sussing it out will come with experience, but he’s inwardly bracing for when it does.

“Ah,” Alastor says, wiping at the corner of his eye. “God rest his soul,” he adds as an afterthought. “Or, most likely, the other one.”

Angel leans as far back as he can into the car seat. Alastor reaches over to adjust his seatbelt. As usual, he’s touched by the gesture.

It doesn’t diminish how weirded out he is by the story. But, knowing Alastor, it doesn’t seem that far-fetched. He lolls his head, stretching out the muscles, the toll of the long drive. He waits for Alastor to elaborate, but his boyfriend appears content at leaving the ending as is.

He shrugs. Next subject, then.

“Anyway…so there was this one time when Molly dared me to climb up the…whaddaya call it? On the sides of the houses that catch and drain rain?”

“Downspouts? Waterspouts?”

“Yeah. That. So she dared me to climb up one…”

* * *

They arrive right on time.

Alastor preens as Angel praises his time management. His driving, as usual, was unrivaled. Literally. They barely managed to evade the cops after goading another driver into an impromptu street race. Angel only just resisted the urge to give him road head, which was just as well, since the police chase was a doozy. The subsequent explosion and ensuing smoke were just as exhilarating, and they passed the pileup fast enough to avoid setting off Angel’s allergies. Even with Alastor’s reckless driving, it still takes them the better part of several hours, and Angel stretches, cat-like, as shivers of pleasure rocket down his spine when he finally steps out of the car.

Alastor unloads the trays from the trunk, the food only slightly having been shifted during the ride.

“Al, ya didn’t need to bring anything,” Angel admonishes for the fifth time.

“It would’ve been rude not to.”

Angel loves when Alastor cooks, especially the soul food and creole dishes. Alastor waltzes around the kitchen like he was meant to be there, shattering much of the misconceptions that they dealt with in the genesis of their relationship. Angel may lean towards wearing traditionally feminine garb, but Alastor cooks, cleans, and exudes panache. Angel’s the first on the scene to eradicate vermin (Alastor loathes moths) and Alastor tinkers with the car on weekends. Together, they crush stereotypes, asinine as they are to begin with, but Angel can’t curb the sinking feeling that it wouldn’t matter a lick to his father. And to his older brother.

He voices his concern and Alastor, to his disappointment, shakes it off.

“Your father opened up a line of communication, didn’t he? Someone who does can’t be as bad as all that!”

Alastor has no idea.

Angel tries to quell his trepidation by standing still. A wayward sea breeze flutters in from the east, and he takes a moment to drown in his surroundings.

The wave of nostalgia runs its expected course. The trees bow and bend and the heady, addictive scent of his childhood permeates the air, his lungs, his bones. In his mind’s eye, he’s eight again, his mother is still alive, and he is as close to carefree as he’ll ever be. Molly shares his age, as well as everything else, but it’s comforting to have a love, the forest, forever existing on the edges of his periphery. In this trip down memory lane, Frankie lurks in the background as part of their trio, not as standoffish as he’s wont to be in current times, but then again, Angel wasn’t as sure of his sexuality then. Or how wrong the world viewed it as.

As such, eight-year-old Angel sits among the bramble and under the swaying boughs of his trees, singing.

That’s what Angel chooses to remember, amidst all the heartache and pain that followed.

He isn’t aware that he’s crying until Alastor reaches up and wipes the tears off his cheeks. He touches their foreheads together.

It’s all the reassurance he needs.

Angel curls his hand around Alastor’s bicep. Alastor kisses him as they await the response to the doorbell. Someone appears at the door. It creaks open, and Angel swears eight limbs fly out to capture him in a tight embrace.

“Tony!”

What follows is a stream of Italian and English, peppered with incoherent sobbing.

Alastor, bless him, stands back and says nothing.

There’s only so many times one can witness two halves colliding back together, Angel supposes as he dampens her sleeve.

* * *

The rest of the welcome is as lukewarm as expected.

Angel’s older brother slouches in the foyer, nodding to Alastor and barely keeping the sneer off his face.

“Frankie,” he introduces himself, frost dripping from his voice. He doesn’t offer his hand.

Probably something to do with the broadcast, if Angel is to be believed.

Angel excuses himself, mumbling something about wanting to freshen up, and bolts down the hallway, leaving Alastor with his siblings. Suppressing a sigh, he smiles charmingly at both. His attempt at small talk with Molly is successful, at least. Angel’s older brother, when he deigns to answer, fires back in curt, one-word sentences, so Alastor lavishes his attention on Molly. He’s keen on digging up some dirt as punishment for Angel’s hasty abandonment, after all.

“My, you’re much lovelier than what I gathered from Anthony’s descriptions. It’s such a pleasure to meet you at last.”

“Same,” she titters, blushing as he leans towards her. “He never mentioned how gorgeous ya were. And that voice! Mercy!” She lowers her voice. “You’re exactly his type, doll. An’ I’ve got the magazine covers to prove it!”

Alastor grins. “Magazine covers? Is that right?”

“Yup. The ones he stole from me to tuck into his bed at night.” She winks, and it’s unnervingly similar to Angel’s. “Pity I can’t do the same with you.”

“Stop hittin’ on Tony’s butt buddy,” Frankie spits, emphasizing the slur. “That’s like squeezing blood outta a stone.” He chortles at his own pathetic joke.

Alastor swivels on his heel, baring his canines. “Oh? Blood, you say? And you would profess to know about my specific situation how?”

Angel’s older brother steps back as Alastor advances. His back hits the wall.

“Funny little world, isn’t it? To be able to jump freely to conclusions?”

Frankie fumbles in his pocket while Molly steps in between them.

She groans wearily as if this weren’t the first or the last time she’s had to do exactly that, but to her relief and Alastor’s dismay, Angel returns, slightly out of breath. He sidles up next to him, weaving their fingers together. He smells cleaner, somehow. Lilac overlays the natural scent of his bare skin. Alastor doesn’t have time to question it, as Molly launches into an impromptu tour while Frankie reluctantly unglues himself from against the wall.

They meander through the rest of the house with Molly talking their ears off, and the older brother sulking behind. She gives him the general overview, pointing out the various rooms on the lower floor after they wind around the staircase. The upper floor, Alastor notes, isn’t touched upon at all. All of the siblings seem to share an unspoken agreement to ignore the space, so Alastor keeps the thought to himself for the time being. Molly purposely pauses at Angel’s bedroom, and Alastor fastidiously jots down its location in his mental map of the sprawling home.

The interior is spacious and palatial, in a tastefully executed art deco style. Alastor enjoys the 1920s aesthetic. He’s partial to certain Art Nouveau styles, but the bold, geometric contrasts of the aforementioned style win him over. Were they to one day have a house of their own, he would most likely incorporate it in its design.

He trips and almost faceplants into the carpet.

The eldest snickers. Molly gives him a concerned look, while Angel’s is more exasperated. He hoists him upwards with his arms, having caught him mid-fall. Molly chews her lip, another Angelesque habit.

“Anyway, Daddy should be here soon. He’s in his study, wrapping up some,” she halts, glancing at Alastor. She shakes her head, likely banishing what she believes to be a preposterous thought.

 _“_ Business.”

Curious, he thinks. Come to think of it, Alastor wasn’t aware that Angel hailed from such an affluent family. The whole house drips of opulence and wealth, ill-gotten or not. And this one is meant to be a vacation home.

He cocks his head at Angel, who avoids his stare, now suspiciously shy.

Curiouser and curiouser, he muses. He studies Angel’s face and is about to remark on the bizarre situation when the reason rounds the corner. Alastor looks up at the sudden intrusion and comes face to face with the newcomer.

“Henry,” Henry says, by way of introduction, and everything falls into place.

Shit, _merde_ , and fuck, Alastor thinks as his boyfriend’s father narrows his eyes.

“Alastor,” he replies, habit. “Pleasure.”

It is absolutely the opposite.

He looks askance at Angel, his usually beloved boyfriend, who apparently neglected to inform him of his real surname. Alastor remembers him mentioning once or twice that he legally went by his mother’s maiden name. Alastor foolishly waved it off at the time, not caring to delve deeper under the spell of post-coitus, and as deference to Angel’s privacy. He assumed Angel would inform him, sooner or later, of the morbid details.

Sooner, in this case, would have been much preferred.

Now, it all falls into place: Angel’s reluctance at divulging his childhood, the remarkably esoteric firearm knowledge his boyfriend possesses, and his laissez-faire approach to Alastor’s own underworld dealings. Alastor mentally notes to broach the whole “don’t ask, don’t tell” aspect of their relationship if he survives this dinner. What started as a boon is quickly spiraling into a detrimental mess. Possibly lethal.

He belatedly observes the cogs turning as Henry also appears to put two and two together. Adrenaline spikes as his heart rate speeds up. His vision blurs in tandem with the sound of static buzzing in his ears. The beastly thing inside begins pacing as Alastor readies for a fight.

“The radio show host,” Henry says, succinctly.

And just like that, the storm abates. He forces in a breath, then two.

Still.

A subtle glance at Henry’s clenched fists all but confirms his suspicions.

He’s matched the face to his voice. Now, Alastor is positive that Henry was present during the altercation with Vox. Angel furrows his brow at his abnormal reaction, but Alastor tries to reassure him by lacing his fingers through his. The gesture is met with scorn on all sides but Molly’s.

The sigh dies in Alastor’s throat.

This is going to be a long dinner.

* * *

Besides the perfunctory nod, his father doesn’t make it a point to reach out to him beyond a few empty words aimed at Alastor.

Typical, Angel thinks as he pushes the food around on his plate. Alastor sits next to him, ramrod straight, fielding questions.

“Ya live together?”

Alastor answers honestly. Angel hopes the inclusion of Husk will soften the verbal blows, but as usual, it’s wishful thinking.

“With another guy? He in on this too?”

A resounding no.

“How long?”

Alastor begins to answer incorrectly as he misinterprets the question when Angel interrupts.

“As a _couple_ ,” he whispers, elbowing him.

Oh. Coming up on a year.

“Which one’s the-”

Okay, Angel concedes. That last one comes from Frankie, but a swift kick to the crotch from Molly dissuades him from finishing that sentence. His father doesn’t address him, as usual. He chews, deliberately on his cud, until he finally glances at Angel’s plate.

“What, kid? You a vegan, now?”

Angel doesn’t bother to answer the incendiary bait disguised as a question. His father harrumphs, eyes slitting. Angel tenses, and braces for the follow-up.

“Thought ya liked _meat_ , all things considered.”

Angel slams his fists down.

The table shakes. For a moment, everything freezes. Frankie’s hand dips into his pocket, his father matches Angel’s glare with a smug smirk, Molly reaches inside her skirt, hand creeping towards her garter, and Alastor-

Alastor continues eating.

They break out of the charged moment to gawk at him.

The silverware scrapes across the plate with every pass of his fork. Alastor slices his meat, cutting on the bias, apparently unaware that he’s also cutting through the tension with a steak knife. He takes a well-deserved break from chewing to take a sip of his water, smiling at everyone as he does so.

“So, Al! Radio! Sounds like fun,” Molly rambles in an attempt to salvage dinner and to address the odd man sitting at their dining table.

It backfires miserably. All the other men wince.

“Oh! I mean, um.” She looks down, rose blossoming on her cheeks.

Alastor coughs. “It is, my dear. Very.” He hastily switches gears at Henry’s glare. “And what do you do for a living? Why, if I have a face for radio, then you must be in show biz!”

Molly flushes further but in a different manner. She giggles. “Al, you’re the handsomest fella I’ve seen in ages! And no, nothin’ to do with entertainment. Well, kinda. I started out in ballet…”

She yammers on, hands gesturing madly as she tells her tale.

Angel is struck by how cherubic she is. He hasn’t seen her in over a year, and he’s taken aback at how much younger she seems. She’s positively glowing. He stares at the table, tracing his finger on a deep scratch.

Is she thriving without me, wonders Angel.

Is that what happens after he leaves?

Before the self-flagellation sinks in its claws any deeper, a warm weight settles over his hand. He startles. Alastor threads his fingers between the empty spaces, hooking them together. Uncaring of the daggers directed at them, he brings their hands to his mouth and presses his lips over Angel’s knuckles.

Alastor would be dead twice over if looks could decimate. Thankfully, they don’t.

Angel feels impossibly light.

* * *

Bless Molly’s heart, he thinks. She’s the only thing keeping this dinner conversation afloat.

“This is delicious! Where’d ya learn how to cook? Culinary school?”

Alastor flashes his teeth, all charm. “ _Who_ , actually. From my mother and father.” He places his fork down, his other hand still preoccupied with Angel’s. He massages his thumb in soothing circles. “It’s how they met, initially. Aspiring chefs. Less fine dining and more _soul_ , you might say.”

It appears to be the right thing to say.

“Huh,” Henry finally grunts. “Reminds me of a girl I used to see, back in the city. Always made spreads like this. Folks weren’t bad, either. Solid people. Delicious food.” He clears his throat. “Nothin’ compared to their mama, though. She’d rather die before bein’ stuck in the kitchen if it weren’t for the kids. They loved her food.”

Alastor struggles to hide his fascination. For the first time during dinner, Henry resembles a human being. A wistful, nostalgic fog settles over his face, concealing the whole truth, while also blurring and softening the sharp edges that constitute the seemingly shoddy framework of his life.

Alastor emphasizes.

He’s lived it, himself. At this juncture, there seems to be nothing that will undo years of sharpening, courtesy of life, and all the illicit choices he’s had to make in order to survive it.

He may love Angel until he’s long in the tooth, but he will never lose that razor’s edge.

Frankie, surprisingly, breaks the silence.

“Mama hated cookin’. _Nonna_ forced her to learn, but she fought tooth and fuckin’ nail.” He laughs once, then stares at his plate. “But damn if she always made sure to bake ‘em when I was cravin’ those fuckin’ rainbow cookies.”

“Hard pass on the rainbows,” Angel says, smiling. “Keep ‘em. I’ll take those donuts any day.”

“Hard yes on ‘em _now_ , huh?” his older brother fires back, pointing his fork at Alastor, but it’s with good humor. “Dumbass. More for me, then.”

Molly snickers. “Please. You’re just as allergic to the kitchen. Only way you’d be lucky enough to get your paws on ‘em these days is if I make ‘em. For shame, Frankie. Lazy,” she teases.

He grins. “You’ll end up stuffin’ your face with the whole batch. Like last time.” She reaches over and pinches him. He yelps. “Hey! I’m just sayin’ that before ya end up lookin’ like Uncle Leo.”

Angel snorts before erupting in a fit of giggles. She launches a butter knife at him to Alastor’s abject shock, but Angel smoothly bats it away with a practiced swipe of his fork. It bounces off the wall, which, now that Alastor is examining it, has tiny, jagged marks embedded in the paint.

He makes a mental note never to upset her.

For a wonderful, shining moment, everything is normal. Like the family portrait on a greeting card. The holiday feast in a romantic comedy. The passage in the novel where the loose ends have been tied, and the heroes sit once again reunited and toasting to the future.

Alastor, having lived it, braces for the inevitable.

The other shoe, in his experience, will always fall.

Angel jeers at Molly, sticking out his tongue. Frankie follows suit and pokes her side in between her peals of laughter. Amidst this ebullience, the man at the head of the table keeps glancing at the empty seat to his right, where a table setting was made, but no one sits. From the corner of his eye, Alastor watches Henry turn varying shades of morose.

As if he cannot reconcile or abide living in such joy when the person who deserves it the most is lost.

Alastor unconsciously reinforces his hold, tracing Angel’s hand with his thumbnail. And for good reason. Not a minute later, Henry slams his fists down on the table, mirroring the earlier actions of his son.

“Shut the fuck up!” he bellows. “And stop actin’ like goddamn children! For fuck’s sake, grow the fuck up!”

The moment dies, just like everything else Henry touches. A disconcerting feeling burrows its way into Alastor’s mind, akin to déjà vu, but closer to peering into a smudged mirror. A curse of foresight, or possibly a reflection.

Like recognizing like.

They lapse back into a sullen silence after the outburst.

Angel grips his hand tightly. Alastor searches his face for any hints. Angel’s face, to Alastor’s distress, is devoid of any emotion. It’s transformed into a blank slate, one that Alastor intimately recognizes as disassociation. An ugly, soundless roar rises inside him. He attempts to quench it when Angel squeezes. He automatically glances down at their joined hands.

Angel’s fingernails are wiped clean of any lacquer. There’s a smudge on his right thumb that he’d missed, and Alastor’s stomach swoops as he realizes the lengths that Angel went to for his father’s acceptance. The clothes. The lack of embellishment. All the charming idiosyncrasies of Angel’s character boiled down to neutered mundanity. 

Alastor’s rage picks up momentum and steam.

He’d been perfectly mild-mannered so far, but his temperament only extends to a certain _point_ , in which it becomes a weapon. Angel, appearing to sense the onslaught, squeezes his hand, this time, in warning. He’s only just managed to bite his tongue when the phones buzz at the same time, emitting a chiming cacophony of various ringtones.

“What the fuck?”

Alastor pats his pocket. He pulls out his phone, scanning it for notifications.

Nothing.

He shoots a puzzled glance at Angel, who does the same and checks his. The screen lights up as he presses it, illuminating his bemused expression.

“Al,” he says, finally looking at him. “Did ya get anythin’?”

“Nada.”

“It’s from an unknown number, Tony.”

“What the fuck.”

“Oh my god.”

Molly shields her mouth, eyes wide. Henry, blotchy and blistering, slides his phone towards them. Alastor watches as it spins to a halt.

“Press it,” Henry hisses, nostrils flaring. “It’s from your goddamn ex-boyfriend.”

Angel’s hand shakes.

“Do it, Tony. Fuckin’ _now_.”

He does. The audio is turned up to the highest setting. Leaning over with a furrowed brow, Alastor observes as the video starts. On screen, Angel winks at him in full makeup and lingerie. Lingerie that Alastor is decidedly not intimately familiar with.

Something inside him snarls and lunges at the bit.

Angel’s barely clad, shimmying his shoulders uncertainly as painted nails belonging to an unknown party scrabble at his chin. The fingers grab and position him, facing him dead-on towards the camera.

“Hey, babes and bitches! This is Angel Dust, your favorite camwhore! Goin’ to be filmin’ my second ever episode with my daddy, Val-”

Angel hurriedly exits the screen, but it’s too late.

Alastor sees red.

His phone buzzes in his hand, at last. Breathing deeply, he flips it over in his palm. His vision blurs as his temper rises. It awakens inside his chest, howling to be set free.

 **Al, sorry so late ❤**

**Such a bitch to get a hold of your number. Had to nick Voxie’s phone while he went out. Found an old video u might enjoy! TTYL handsome** **💋**

Attached is the rest of the video.

He lurches up, grabbing Angel by the elbow. He bulls his way out of the dining room, mumbling something vaguely apologetic but wildly insincere. Henry attempts to bark out something, and Alastor, gripping Angel’s arm almost tight enough to bruise, spins around.

“No,” he snarls. “You shut up. This isn’t about you, Henry. I’m going to have a talk with Anthony in his room. You’re going to leave us alone until we’re _finished_.”

Henry scowls but keeps his peace. With luck, he’ll listen, but Alastor knows that it’s a pipe dream. Odds are, Henry is already planning revenge against Valentino or him. Likely both. It’s what their family is known for, after all. Angel’s siblings, on the other hand, look impressed. Molly bites her lip the way Angel does when he’s hiding a smirk, and Frankie sips his wine to conceal his.

No, the thing inside rages. No distractions.

He steers Angel down the spacious hallway and unceremoniously nudges him into the room.

He locks the door behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. All titles, main and chapters, are lyrics from "When You Were Young" by The Killers.
> 
> 2\. Next chapter is positively laden with smut. Tags will be updated accordingly, and a reminder will be reiterated in the beginning notes for Chapter 2.


	2. The Devil's Water (It Ain't So Sweet)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please heed the tags: everything after References to Pornographic Paraphernalia.

Angel is incensed.

He’s also a little more than impressed that Alastor remembered the location of his room considering the size of the house, but knowing his boyfriend, he absolutely fucking would.

“What the fuck was that about?”

“Take out your phone.”

“What?”

“Dear, please don’t make me repeat myself. You know I find that tiresome.” His voice is slightly garbled.

Deranged, almost.

Angel would be terrified if he weren’t so turned on by the switch.

Alastor unbuttons and rolls up his sleeves. He slides his gloves on, and Angel’s knees knock together as heat pools in his stomach. He shucks off his trousers at record speed. The air is chilly, and his skin prickles with goosebumps. He leaves his shirt on, because the skin there is too sensitive, especially from Alastor’s earlier manhandling. Angel hooks his thumbs under his panties, lace softly grazing his hips, but Alastor halts him with a hand. He moves closer, achingly so, until their chests touch.

“Clementine?” he asks, cupping his face gently.

Angel leans into it, the curve of his cheek fitting perfectly. He turns his head and kisses his palm, right in the middle, where the lifeline would be, were it not encased in smooth leather.

“ _Fuck_ no.”

Alastor smiles tenderly before reverting to a more bestial demeanor. He bares his teeth. His eyes are nearly black, pupils blown wide. Angel’s heart races. His cock swells, trapped in the tight confines of lace. What he says next sets the night’s licentious plans in motion.

“I’m ready for anythin’, baby,” Angel purrs, bending over to fish out his phone from his discarded trousers. He wiggles his hips and draws Alastor’s attention to the lace and freckled skin.

His voice slithers out, a low rumble.

“Is that right?”

Alastor’s eyes flash, ravenous.

“Then get yourself ready, darling,” he croons as Angel tosses him his phone. Alastor catches and dumps it on the mattress beside them. With deft fingers, he unbuckles his belt. The metallic clang of the buckle hitting the floor disturbs the silence of the room. Alastor, ever attuned to sound, smiles, seemingly pleased with the acoustics.

Music to his ears.

A shiver travels up Angel’s spine at that wicked grin. He’s still parsing out what his boyfriend has planned in his twisted mind, while still reeling from his sheer audacity at confronting his father. Alastor strips down to his boxer briefs, folding his shirt and tie before placing them on the bed. He raises a brow before frisbeeing the square packet at Angel’s stunned face.

It hits him square in the forehead.

Trance sufficiently broken, he snarls and scrambles to the floor to pick it up. Bare knees sliding against the cold ground, Angel raises his head and is abruptly met with the glistening slit of Alastor’s cock. He parts his lips-and thighs-automatically.

Like a _good_ _boy_.

Cooing endearments, Alastor guides his cock into Angel’s parted mouth, smearing precum all over his lips.

Angel moans, mouth falling open. He sticks his tongue out obediently, allowing Alastor to drag his cockhead over the soft wet length. Precum coats his tongue, but it’s not enough. He wants to feel it slathering the back of his throat. He wants his mouth filled.

He wants to _choke_.

“One hand,” Alastor commands.

Angel savagely tears the packet open. He hurriedly slicks up his fingers and reaches behind. He yanks the thin strip of fabric to the side, exposing his hole. It flutters around his fingers as he circles and teases the pucker. With his other hand, Angel grips Alastor’s cock at the base, and slides half the massive length into his mouth, flattening his tongue as he licks up the veiny underside. He glides his mouth back along the shaft, hollowing his cheeks as he tightens his lips around the head. He chases his hand back down to the base. Angel moans at the burst of salty tangy slick.

It’s divine.

Alastor twines his gloved fingers in his hair. He hisses as Angel grazes his teeth over his sensitive head. Angel peers up as he blows his boyfriend, heart jumping at the phone clutched in his hand. Alastor watches the screen with lidded eyes, lazily smiling as he preens and peacocks for the camera.

Angel’s stomach churns with arousal. Pride. Love.

_Revenge._

When he pulls back with a wet pop, the thick head slides from his mouth. Alastor’s eyes darken, gaze drawn to his swollen lips. Angel flicks out his tongue to lick at his slit, dipping the tip inside.

Tasting him.

Alastor curses, bucking. Angel lewdly slurps, gazing up at the camera and the cameraman with demure eyes. He pouts and drags his lips over the leaking slit, smearing it with excess precum in an obscene approximation of lip gloss. He blows a kiss to the camera, before darting out his tongue to lick it off. It tastes exquisitely like Alastor, and Angel craves _more_. Spreading his thighs wider, Angel pushes his fingers inside himself.

God, he thinks as he shoves them up to the knuckles. Fucking finally.

He licks down the underside before gently sucking his balls. He moans with Alastor, who grabs tightly to his hair. He fucks himself deeper on his fingers, crooking them until they brush against his prostate. Shuddering, Angel glances up at the phone, performing for the camera.

Making up his mind, he breathes in, gulping air down his nose, and relaxes his throat.

Alastor almost drops the phone.

Angel deep throats him as far as he can.

His lips stretch around the thick girth. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes as his throat is filled. His nose grazes the coarse hairs at the base. Alastor watches Angel with darkened but adoring eyes, breathing hard with a shaky smile. He’s holding himself back, and that just won’t do. Angel needs him to lose control. He squeezes Alastor’s ass, signaling him to proceed.

Finally, Alastor begins fucking his mouth.

It’s messy and unhinged, and Angel is in _heaven_.

Angel presses his fingers deeper, scissoring himself open as he gags around the onslaught. Trapped in his panties, his neglected cock bobs with every punishing thrust of Alastor’s hips. He moans, garbled around the thick length.

Alastor curses and pulls off.

Angel gulps in air. He pulls his fingers from his hole to brace himself on both hands. He whines at the sudden emptiness. Fingers rake through his hair soothingly, before tugging and forcing his head up. Alastor watches him through the screen.

“Oh, pet. Aren’t you a _natural_.”

Angel smirks, licking his swollen lips. “Practice makes perfect,” he sweetly intones, voice hoarse.

A possessive, greedy rage flickers across Alastor’s face. His fingers twitch in the nest of Angel’s hair. The muscle in his jaw pulses, and Angel’s stomach flutters in anticipation. Perverse as it is, he wants Alastor to break him.

In an impressive feat of restraint, Alastor releases his hold. Angel bites back his disappointment. Soft leathery fingers trail down the side of his face. Alastor cups his chin and indents his thumb in the pillowy center of his bottom lip.

“Lick,” he commands. Angel sticks out his tongue. He runs it along the ridges of the leather, then swirls it around the tip before sucking it into his mouth.

“Mouthy brat,” Alastor whispers, and Angel burns with arousal. He pulls his thumb out from Angel’s mouth and wipes it across his lips.

Alastor tosses the phone on the bed. He saunters over to Angel’s closet and rifles inside, flinging aside clothes and ignoring Angel’s impatient protests before finding it.

Molly’s old Catholic school uniform.

Angel’s pulse quickens.

“Put this on,” Alastor orders.

The top barely fits him, even with his sister’s ample bust measurements. Angel hisses as the fabric snags his sensitive nipples. He shimmies the skirt on, rubbing his legs together in a futile attempt to catch the lube dribbling down his thighs. Alastor rummages through his drawers, happening upon his secret stash of porn, makeup, and lingerie if the delighted noise is anything to go by. Balled up stockings float in a curved arch as they’re lobbed in the air. This time, Angel snatches them with ease.

He clicks his tongue. “Someone’s got a fetish,” he teases. Alastor just grins in response.

“Yes, darling,” he says, stalking over to him. He dances nimble fingers on his jaw before guiding his face towards his. Soft lips brush against his own.

“You,” he murmurs, before kissing him properly.

Flatterer, Angel wants to say, but the word is trapped as stolen breath between their parted lips. After an agonizingly slow kiss, Alastor nudges his forehead to Angel’s and asks for permission.

Predictably, Angel grants it.

Grinning, he scampers to the bed so can fully dress for their performance. In the meantime, Alastor loosens his gloves, running a thumb along the cuffs to allow for unrestricted movement. Lacking any shame whatsoever, he waits patiently as Angel dresses.

Stark naked, besides the gloves.

In his childhood bedroom.

Lord save him, teenage Angel would have sunk to his knees.

Angel sighs. He sure knows how to pick them, he thinks fondly. He smooths the tops of the stockings and tugs them high up his thighs before bouncing back on the bed and striking a pose.

Alastor turns at the movement.

His predatory gaze hones in on Angel’s stockinged legs and the opaque stretch of the fabric as he crosses his ankles. Angel beckons him with lidded eyes, his schoolgirl uniform scandalously unkempt. His cock peeks out from under the rucked up skirt, precum pearling at the slit.

Alastor picks up the phone and resumes recording. He ignores the angry shouts from down the hall.

“Darling,” he croons. Angel wets his lower lip at the deep timbre.

“Time for a show.”

* * *

Once, after painting his insides, Alastor pulled out of him, leaving his reddened hole sore and ruined. His entire backside was a mess of teeth marks and jagged scratches.

Angel couldn’t lie on his back for a week.

As unflappable as he appears, Alastor can, and will, lose control. It’s Angel’s ultimate goal to shove him past that brink.

But Alastor never, under any circumstances, sets the beast completely free. With him, anyway. This infuriates and consoles Angel because a sneaking part of him knows that should Alastor ever do so during sex, he’d end up bruised and bleeding. Because deep in Alastor’s psyche, there’s a chaotic bloodlust that no one can tame, not even him.

The fact that it’s both terrifying and arousing speaks volumes of Angel’s character.

And sanity.

* * *

Alastor works his mouth open hungrily.

He pushes the plaid fabric up to his hips, squeezing and rubbing his thighs. One hand cups his balls, while a leather-clad finger forces its way inside him. His hips buck up at the intrusion.

Angel bites him in shock.

Alastor reels back at the sudden action, but base need swiftly takes over. He smiles, licking away the tiny bead of blood at his lip. Alastor’s eyes darken. A wave of uncertainty and fear washes over Angel, which serves only to heighten his arousal. He’s only mildly aware that this is the moment that Alastor loosens the leash. The beast prowls, propelled forward by desire.

Depravity.

For now, Alastor sits back on his haunches, softly humming. He raises the phone, aiming the lens at Angel’s guilt-ridden visage. Slowly, he brings the camera down.

“Show me your new piercings, dear.”

Angel flushes. Fingers shaking, he unbuttons the blouse at the smoothly recited command. He hisses as the fabric brushes his nipples. Alastor makes a come-hither motion with his hand, and Angel arches his back, revealing his chest.

The barbells glint under the bedroom lights.

“Resplendent,” Alastor breathes.

He hands Angel the phone, who receives it with trembling fingers. He aims the lens towards Alastor and his newfound attention to his chest.

“Take a seat, sweetheart,” he orders. Angel nods and crawls forward to straddle him. Their cocks brush and electricity shoots up his spine.

They moan in unison.

Alastor recovers first, rutting into Angel while he leans forward and snags a nipple between his teeth. He swirls his tongue along the sensitive nub, rolling Angel’s nipple in slow undulating motions. Alastor flicks his tongue under it, jolting the barbell up. Pure voltage snakes down Angel’s front. His cock twitches against Alastor with every tug of his teeth. Angel ruts against the warm flesh, cock trailing a slippery path over Alastor’s stomach; his cock; his thighs. Alastor splays his hands on his back, pushing him forward. He drags a hot tongue over his nipple, teasing the bud with sharp canines. He continues his assault on both pierced nipples, lewdly licking and biting until they flush red with oversensitivity.

Angel swans under the attention.

When the overstimulation proves too much, he mewls and struggles to pull away. Alastor reluctantly complies. He directs his attention back up to Angel’s face, but is distracted by the fabric dipping down his shoulder. Angel blushes, heat swirling up his throat like smoke.

He pictures it: a debauched, disheveled version of himself, wearing a half-buttoned Catholic schoolgirl uniform, exposing his pierced chest and dripping cock to the camera.

Alastor snatches the phone to capture exactly that. “Now, Angel,” he purrs.

“Who’s your daddy?”

Angel bites back a moan. He flies his hand to the base of his cock, circling it tightly to keep from spilling right then and there. Alastor smiles, partly shrouded by the phone. Angel returns it, shakily, and lies back so that Alastor can fuck him into his childhood bed.

He wastes no time.

With a gloved hand, he rucks up Angel’s skirt and thrusts in. Angel moans at the sting. He parts his legs wider, body trying to accommodate the huge intrusion. His cockhead catches past the rim, so he adjusts the angle. Angel bears down as Alastor bulldozes forward, tight hole fluttering around the thickened girth and heat. Even though he’s prepped, Alastor stretches him beyond what he prepares for, every time. He squeals as the heavy, thick glide of it forces his hole to take it even deeper still.

Pleasure blooms in every nerve of Angel’s body as he’s meticulously filled. He wonders aloud what he must look like, speared this wide around his boyfriend’s fat cock.

“Dear,” Alastor stutters as he inches further in, “you look magnificent.”

Angel gingerly lifts the hemline of his skirt to his belly button, eliciting a harsh inhale from Alastor, who tries to keep the phone steady above him.

“How does that feel,” Alastor rumbles, finally bottoming out.

“ _Baby_?”

Angel mewls at the uncharacteristic endearment.

“Good,” he whimpers, deliberately holding back, still half aware of the other people present in the house.

“Say it,” Alastor hisses.

Angel shakes his head, clinging to his last sliver of self-control and pride. Alastor quickly pulls out until his cockhead is the only thing buried inside him. Angel whimpers at the sudden emptiness, twisting his body in frustration. Alastor bares his teeth.

He shoves back inside and Angel sees fucking stars.

“Daddy!” he cries, the name ripping from his throat. Angel’s thighs shake as Alastor ravages his body while steering Angel’s hips to meet his punishing thrusts.

“Louder,” he demands, digging his fingers into his hips.

“Oh _fuck_! Daddy!” Angel wails as Alastor slams into that sensitive bundle of nerves. His hips buck weakly as Alastor holds him down.

“What do you want, pet?” he croons, panting.

“Tell me.”

Alastor gets off on hearing people plead.

Thank God Angel loves to beg.

“ _Please_ fuck me, daddy!”

Overwhelmed by pleasure, Angel hardly hears the smashing of glass and pottery as the sounds travel through the thick walls. Alastor smirks, devilishly pleased, judging by the way he erratically fucks in harder. Angel repeats the word, a filthy mantra slithering from his lips, as more sounds reverberate through the corridor. He preens, a smug coil of satisfaction mating with the cresting adoration he feels for Alastor in this shining moment.

Alastor takes a moment to pause the recording. He leans down and cushions the phone next to Angel’s head.

“You’re so much better than your family, Anthony,” he whispers along the shell of his ear. “Pearls before swine, the lot of them, excluding your sister and late mother.”

“Just say the word, darling. Give the command,” he promises, all horns and buttery words. Angel’s heart beats a little faster. He rakes his nails down Alastor’s chest. Alastor answers by viciously sinking his teeth into the sensitive area of his neck and shoulder. Angel releases a harsh breath. “Ha,” he sighs out, the unyielding sting sent straight to his cock. “More.”

Alastor bites the other side of his throat in lieu of kisses. He pauses, just for a second, to murmur, “Clementine?”

Angel bristles. “Ya deaf? _More_ ,” he retorts, caustic and claws.

Alastor retaliates.

He rewards Angel by adorning him with his second favorite necklace, biting sharply up his neck. The pain is exquisite. Angel scrapes nails along Alastor’s side, spurring him on. His head spins. Pain and pleasure howl and sing in his veins.

Alastor moans, in the column of Angel’s throat, but not before reiterating:

“Any world without you is one I would raze to the ground.”

Angel almost comes, but Alastor swiftly pulls out. He clenches at the loss, groaning. Alastor apologizes, licking a wet line up his ear. Growling, Angel hooks his leg around him and flips him over, inverting their positions. He straddles Alastor now, who huffs as his breath loosens from his chest at the sudden switch. A flash of dark annoyance sprints across his face, but it’s culled at Angel’s breathy purr.

“I’d like to ride you, daddy,” he coos, lining up Alastor’s cock with his hole. “If that’s all right.”

The beast returns, and it snaps at his impertinence.

“Obstinate,” he growls.

“You _love_ it,” Angel breathes, sliding down to the base.

Alastor bucks up, arching off the bed as Angel’s hole swallows him. Angel bites his lip as he’s stretched wide again. A blissful moment passes before they remember the phone. Alastor grabs it, and filming resumes.

“Mouthy,” Alastor gasps, his other hand anchoring Angel in place. The phone shakes, erratic like Angel’s own pounding heart, but Alastor grips it as best as he can in a white-knuckled hand. Angel rides him slowly, back arched and chest proudly exposed, piercings glittering under the lights. Alastor shuts his eyes tight. The phone almost slips from his hand, but his fingers close around it at the last second.

Alastor’s breaths turn turbulent. He claws at Angel’s thigh but the leather is too soft to break skin. He tries to still Angel’s hips in an attempt to keep from coming.

Angel has no such compunctions. He twists on Alastor’s cock so that it rubs against his prostate, warmth spiraling like flames up his spine.

Angel’s always chased pleasure. He gazes down at his lover, who’s always tried to deny it.

At least, the carnal variety.

Angel watches him, thrusting and gasping under all those prideful trappings. Flayed open just for him. By him. A surge of affection twines with mounting pleasure and-

“I love you,” slips out.

Alastor’s eyes snap open. An unreadable expression swims in their depths as he breathes out his name.

“Anthony.”

It’s like _soaring_.

“I love you,” he repeats.

The phone drops from Alastor’s hand, and he yanks Angel down, down, down. He flips him over on his back and buries himself in stuttering, clumsy motions. He thrusts several times, before pulling out.

With a gloved hand, he fists his release all over Angel’s cock.

Errant globs of come splatter over his skirt and stockings, but the rest coat his cock. Alastor milks out the remainder, his heavy dick twitching over Angel’s as he pumps out the last spurts of come. Scooping the warm release with trembling fingers, he smears his seed all over Angel’s cock.

Angel jerks at the sensation, hips flying up at the added slickness.

He feels absolutely filthy and used.

He feels _beautiful_.

“Just look at the mess between your thighs,” Alastor croons, as his orgasm renders him giddy. He pumps Angel’s shaft loosely, ensuring every last inch is covered with his come. He replaces his hand with Angel’s.

Angel preens under Alastor’s scrutinizing gaze. Alastor tilts the camera.

“That’s it, Anthony.”

With his gloved hand, he slathers more spend onto his fingers and rubs them together. Angel groans as the buttery leather breaches him. His fist flies up and down his shaft.

“Alastor,” he whines, riding his fingers. His thighs flex as he digs his heels into the mattress. A twist and _there_. It builds, that peaking, overwhelming pleasure.

“Come for me,” Alastor purrs.

It’s crooned in the same timbre and style as the theatrical voice he employs on his radio show. If that doesn’t just do it for Angel, the next utterance does.

“Come for daddy.”

Angel obeys. He fucks his hand as he comes, spurting all over his fist and stomach. Alastor works him through his orgasm, words dripping honey; an obscene contrast to his wicked, fluttering fingers.

The world spins, and Angel blacks out.

* * *

When he comes to, it’s to the devil’s smile.

As always, Alastor is not finished with him.

“Elbows and knees, pet. Spread your legs as far apart as they can go.” Alastor removes his fingers with a shameful squelch. “And lift up your skirt.”

Flushed and exhausted, Angel complies.

“Babe,” he whines as Alastor again works a finger, then two, inside him.

“Just taking a picture, dear. Immortalizing the moment. I’ll be finished in a flash.” He chuckles at his own pun, the vibrations stimulating Angel’s overwrought nerves. He whines but keeps his hips still.

_For daddy._

“There we go,” he says. “Flip over.”

Angel does, exposing himself again, cock and stomach sticky with come. Not to mention the state of his clothes.

And yet, Angel couldn’t be happier. He squirms under a cloud of sheer, unadulterated bliss.

“Darling, you look ravishing,” comes the breathless adulation.

Angel smiles. He spreads his legs further, hitching up his sullied skirt, and flaunts the mess and his pink, glistening hole. He blows the camera and Alastor a kiss, winking.

Alastor, with obsequious devotion, leans down and kisses his forehead.

He lets the phone fall from his fingers.

* * *

Alastor lies back after dressing himself, slouching atop the pillows.

“Angel,” he starts, hesitantly. “I apologize. For that lapse in control.” He folds his hands over his stomach. “It steadily grew out of hand. I’ll try to curb my jealousy-”

Angel dips up and shushes him with his mouth. Alastor accepts the kiss with surprise, but eases into it as Angel strokes his cheek.

“Nah, don’t worry about it, babe,” Angel murmurs against his lips. He moves to lie on his side and props his chin up with a hand. He smirks.

“It was a big ‘fuck you’ to my dad. Can’t thank ya enough for that. Never met a guy who ain’t deserve it more.”

Angel yawns and stretches, all freckles and long limbs. “Well, maybe one.”

Alastor watches greedily, cock gaining interest at the sight. It wilts under the mere suggestion of that cad.

“Yes, I am beginning to tire of his unwanted intrusions into our life,” he admits, too breezily to be anything less than suspicious. He drapes his body over Angel’s, nipping apologetically up the reddened column of his throat, switching to soft kisses near his ear.

“We could just kill him,” he suggests sweetly. His cock twitches at the fantasy.

Angel laughs, wrapping his arms around him.

“Temptin’.”

Angel peppers kisses over his face, nuzzling into the warmth like an attention-starved kitten. He moans into his mouth at the feel of Alastor’s half-interested erection and slits his eyes in chastisement. Alastor decides that a definitive answer isn’t needed now, but hopefully soon.

He says so. Angel huffs.

“Psychopath,” he accuses. Alastor grins wider.

“Thank you! Husker says as much!”

“That ain’t a compliment, babe.”

“To you, maybe not!”

“Just. Shut up,” Angel grumbles before assisting him in doing just that.

After, they quietly enjoy each other under the canopied shade of Angel’s bed, the sky blue sheets dappled with rectangles of light. Alastor cages Angel in with his arms, sinking into the sheets with practiced calm. The weight of the evening crashes down, en masse, and clarity reemerges after its long hibernation. Curiosity eats at him, but for Angel’s sake, he reins it in. Mostly. Alastor hums.

“As you know, I didn’t have much growing up. Grew up in the sticks. We barely made ends meet, so this all comes as quite a revelation. You never mentioned your family was so well-to-do.”

Angel stares blankly at the ceiling. A moment passes before he speaks.

“We got everything we wanted growin’ up, sure.” He lifts his head, pillowing it on Alastor’s bicep. His eyes are far away, and speak a little of loss.

“It just had to be at the expense of who we were.”

Alastor searches those eyes, wondering what he sees in the distance. “Caveats. I’m familiar.”

“Yeah. That ain’t freedom. All it is is a collar with extra steps. A cage with room. A longer leash to hang from.” He brings a hand to his ravaged throat.

“Behave, and ya get anythin’ ya want. Fuck up, and it’s the belt.”

Alastor gives him time to mourn. He doesn’t understand fully, since Angel’s experiences seem antithetical to his in many ways, but he acknowledges the importance of grieving. After a pregnant minute, he trusts himself to speak.

“My daddy never hit me,” he says, finally. He ignores the way his stomach twists as his creole accent bleeds into his vernacular. “He wanted to, sometimes, especially when I ran my mouth.”

He slips into another accent, a ghost of his father’s own. “‘Boy, you lucky I don’t believe in that shit’, he’d say. His daddy, my pawpaw, beat his ass growing up, so he made it his mission not to be more of the same, I guess. Never once laid a hand on me. Cousins more than made up for it, though. That’s how I learned to fight.”

He idly drums his fingers along Angel’s side, recalling a long-forgotten composition.

“Maybe if he hit me then I’d have a reason to turn out this way.”

Angel shifts. He strokes a finger up Alastor’s forearm, eyes still unreadable.

“No. Fuck no. All it does is make ya used to physical pain; to expect it from people who say that they love ya. Ya grow up thinkin’ that love is nothin’ without pain, and that fightin’ means that ya love ‘em more.”

He whistles. “Ain’t that the biggest crock of horseshit.”

His hand reaches out for Alastor’s. They twine their fingers together.

For a long while, there’s nothing left to say.

* * *

“I was always wanted,” he says later. “So why did I turn out this way while you ended up on the opposite side of the spectrum?”

Angel laughs, music to his ears. “Whaddaya mean?”

He places a kiss to Angel’s palm. “Radio Demon, right?” he states, matter-of-factly. “I’m fairly sure that if there’s a hint of a hell, I’m ruling part of it.”

Alastor pauses, just to soak him in.

“And you. _Angel_ ,” he reverently breathes. “Rather self-explanatory, that.”

Angel scoffs, picking at his arm. “I ain’t no real angel, babe.”

Alastor looks at him with a strange gleam in his eyes. They’re sanguine in the deep dark.

“You have more of a chance than any of us,” Alastor says, a fact.

It is.

It’s the absolute, unyielding truth.

* * *

They emerge from their cocoon, disheveled, and much worse for wear.

Only Molly remains at the dining table, torn between amusement and apprehension. Frankie, having transported to one of the living room’s many armchairs, sinks into the cushions, bright red and resolutely determined not to make eye contact. In contrast, Henry impales them, Alastor decidedly more so, with a black glare sharp enough to slice steel. Three vases lay in ruptured pieces on the carpet, and the upholstery on one of the decorative loveseats is in tatters. Unperturbed, Alastor immediately rolls up his sleeves and begins clearing the table. Angel plops down across from his sister, trying his utmost not to sprawl over the chair.

“Sorry ‘bout that, guys. Al wanted a tour of my room.”

Frankie squeaks. Henry growls. Alastor hums as he washes the dishes.

Mollie giggles. “Yep. Bet he did. Gave him a _thorough_ one, ain’t ya?”

In his blissed-out state, Angel is only mildly concerned at how furious his father is. He glances down at the table and is greeted by fresh gouges in the wood. He can almost hear the gnashing of his teeth from where he sits. He interprets it as cue to start packing. Again.

Of course, Alastor takes this inopportune moment to propose an insane plan.

“Darling, would you be a dear and wait with Molly for a moment? I’d like to have a chat with your father.” He twists the faucet counterclockwise. “If that’s all right with you, Henry.”

“Fuckin’ fine with me,” Henry grits out. He shoves the seat from the table, pointedly eying Angel’s neck, where Alastor left several of his more decorative marks. “Upstairs, shitbird. My study. Last room down the hall.”

He stomps away and up the staircase. A few moments pass. A door slams, rattling the chandelier. Alastor masks his flinch at the noise, stacking the dishes to dry. Angel furrows his brow.

“Al, ya said ya wouldn’t bring business into this,” he whines. “‘Sides, ya think the old man would play nice after ya fucked his son six ways from Sunday durin’ dinner?”

“I’m still here, ya assholes,” bitches Frankie, all but forgotten in the living room.

Alastor waves him off with terrycloth. “Dessert, actually. In any case, I have a proposal for him. An offer he won’t be able to resist. Refuse.” He polishes the china. “Any variation of that.”

Angel groans. “Fine. Ya got ten minutes. If it goes on longer than that, I’m grabbin’ your ass and we’re goin’ home. And if I hear any shots-”

“Yes, dear,” he says automatically. Molly giggles and Alastor has the decently to look abashed. Frankie gags from his self-induced, goose-feathered exile.

Angel still hasn’t forgiven his father, but under this roof, surrounded by familiar trappings, with his once-estranged family and his lover, something pierces and hooks the edge of his heart.

And tugs him closer to home.


	3. Burning Down (the Highway Skyline)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just three new blink-and-you'll-miss-it tags for this chapter: implied sexual coercion, family, and implied drug addiction.

Alastor swings open the door with fearless aplomb.

“Ah, Henry! Just the man I wanted to see!”

The vitriol, to an extent, is warranted and expected. The barrel pointed at him is not.

“The fuck ya want, dickhead? Besides my fuckin’ son?”

“To talk shop, of course!”

“Ya fuckin’ cocksucker”-Alastor nods since it’s a fair assessment-“his neck is bitten to shit! Jesus, kid, how fuckin’ hard do ya bite?”

Henry’s meaty fists clench, one on the grip and one atop his desk. Veins protrude from his temple and jaw. Alastor is well aware that he’s playing with fire. Henry may not be as dangerous as Lucifer, but he is, at the very least, on par with Valentino and his ilk.

However.

Humility was never Alastor’s strong suit.

“As hard as your son wants me to,” he intones sweetly.

He’s marginally surprised when Henry doesn’t blast his face away. His trigger finger twitches, but Alastor forces himself to remain still. He’s used to posturing. Granted, it’s been a few months since he’d stared down the barrel of a gun, but needs must.

Henry keeps it aloft. “Maybe my fuckin’ memory is shoddy, but I remember ya sayin’ that ya wanted to impregnate my youngest son on the fuckin’ radio. And now ya fuck him in my own goddamn house…was that shitty power play meant for me or Valentino?”

Alastor grins. “Can’t a man kill two birds with the same stone?”

“You in cahoots with Vox and Lucifer?”

“Vox, and just the once. War, bedfellows, and all that.”

“I don’t need to know any more about your sex life, kid.” Alastor’s eye twitches at the absurd suggestion. Before he corrects him, Henry lowers the gun. He gestures Alastor to sit with it, purposely pointing the barrel at him while in clear firing distance.

Poor gun safety, he muses, though he supposes there’s an obvious rhyme and reason for that. Alastor settles in the chair opposite Henry’s desk. He sets the gun down, close enough that Alastor dismisses the possibility of incapacitating him without receiving extra holes through his torso.

“Well,” he says, after Henry glares silently, almost daring him to speak first. Alastor hates to disappoint, so he continues. “First things first! Business. We have a proposition for you.”

Alastor recites the proposal, rattling off the various demands and concessions in lurid detail. He begins with his first, followed by Rosie’s stipulations, and ends with Vox’s as an afterthought. Charm won’t get him anywhere with Henry, so he switches tack, utilizing his silver tongue to the utmost. He elaborates on what Henry’s organization would gain, even though the odds are heavily skewed in his own favor.

Henry snorts. “Ya don’t have a leg to stand on, kid. Your demands are goddamn ridiculous. An’ ya just fucked my son in his goddamn childhood bedroom.”

“True. The last statement, anyway. I do have something that may possibly tip the scales if you’re game.”

“Let’s see it.”

He pitches his phone at Henry after pulling up the requisite page. Mildly disoriented, he manages to catch it, narrowing his eyes at Alastor’s amused grin. He scans it, regardless, while cursing under his breath. In the ensuing kerfuffle, Alastor registers a faint clicking sound but chalks it up to his fertile imagination.

He steeples his fingers and waits.

No dice.

“Ya flamin’ piece of shit,” Henry hisses, gnashing his teeth. “This is worse than the one we had previously before Lucifer fucked us over! You’ve got to be fuckin’ me.”

“Not you, I’m afraid. Just your son!”

“I’ll kill ya, ya goddamn prick, if ya don’t shut your fuckin’ mouth.” He slides the phone back across the table, as if not trusting himself to aim it at Alastor’s head. “This deal is bullshit!”

Alastor sighs. He knew he couldn’t count on Vox’s supposed last resort. He makes a mental note to strangle him when he returns.

“I wouldn’t shoot the messenger, Henry. Vox was initially meant to present the deal, as I’m deemed too”-he air quotes-“ _volatile_ to be trusted with it. However, since we’ve just had the pleasure of acquaintance and an absolute darling in common, no less, I’ve taken it upon myself to extend the proverbial olive branch! What say you?”

“No fuckin’ deal.”

Alastor leans back, drumming his fingers on the table. “See, I hoped you wouldn’t say that.”

This is usually where he uses the ace up his sleeve. Before it gets hairy. Unfortunately, he’s all out of cards.

Unless.

He hesitates.

It’s Alastor’s last chance to finish this deal and hopefully escape with his life, but every nerve in his body screams for him to jump ship. Feasibly, he could return with his tail tucked between his legs, deal unfulfilled, but his pride wars against that.

Even so, an inexplicable surge pushes back. Of all things, it feels like guilt. He disregards it and fights gut instinct.

Alastor chooses pride.

What’s the harm, he thinks, battling against the current. Logically, it makes the most sense. So Alastor ignores all the alarms and bulldozes his way into familiar and practiced territory.

It’s not like Angel would find out.

What he doesn’t know won’t kill him.

And right now, as he peers into the reflection of a desperate man, Alastor knows that the sole reason behind this dinner was to rebuild the bridge Henry deeply regrets burning.

“Your son. Anthony.”

Henry freezes. Ice also floods Alastor’s veins, but it’s a well-acquainted, numbing sensation. He smirks, settling back into old habits.

And well, it’s like he always says:

Needs must.

“Wouldn’t it be a shame for him to end up in this crossfire?”

Henry’s eyes slit. “The fuck are ya gettin’ at?”

Alastor ignores the churning in his stomach and the static in his ears. “You know precisely what I’m alluding to, Henry.”

Henry slams a fist down, shaking the table. Alastor doesn’t flinch. “He ain’t part of this fuckin’ deal.”

Alastor closes his eyes for a brief moment, a brief respite before the coup de maître.

“Yes, he is. Now.”

His chest burns.

He thinks he might be, too.

Henry searches him for a long moment. Finally, he leans back, contemplative but pissed.

“You’re willin’ to leave my son if I don’t agree to this? Fuck. I’d call your bluff, but even I don’t use my family as chess pieces. I’ve known some cold motherfuckers in my day, but I think ya take the cake.”

He whistles lowly. “You’re a bonafide asshole, ya know that?”

Alastor agrees.

Then, tiredly: “Do we have a deal?”

Henry’s nostrils flare as he glares at Alastor’s outstretched hand. He flicks his gaze between his revolver and the opened palm like a cat watching a game of ping pong. After what feels like ages, he shakes it.

Winning does nothing to allay the nausea frothing over in Alastor’s stomach.

“I’ll sign the paperwork tomorrow,” Henry grunts after leaning back. He prepares a cigar, not bothering to offer one to Alastor. “You’re a piece of work, ya know that? Not for nothin’ but they sure broke the mold when they found ya. Ya drive a hard bargain, and I can respect _that_ if nothin’ else.”

Alastor forces out a laugh. “I’m also here to disabuse the notion that experience trumps age.” He soldiers on, because apparently, in for a penny. “Not interested in asking for your blessing. I find it outdated, even for a relic such as myself-”

“Fuck you, kid,” Henry coughs, a plume of smoke escaping from his nose. “What are ya, like mid-twenties, tops?”

“Thirties, actually. Early.”

Henry whistles. “No shit. Sheesh, ya look like a kid. What’s the secret? Virgin blood?”

“Nothing cracks, so they say. And it’s true. Can’t say the same for others,” he wistfully reminisces, trailing off. “Also can’t say that I threw my son out with the bathwater at sixteen.”

“That was years ago, asshole. I was brought up in a different time. And I came around to it. Eventually.”

“Do forgive us if we don’t quite forget trespasses as easily,” he says, dryly. And then, unprompted: “I care…deeply for your son.”

It does nothing to assuage the guilt, but he confesses it regardless.

“Fuck you. I know your game. You’ve been using him as leverage the minute ya walked in here. Ya knew that I wouldn’t pull the trigger, knowin’ how much he cares for ya, just as much as ya knew that ya could get away with that bullshit deal. If my son knew about this-”

Alastor’s heart leaps, and the monster awakens. He turns on Henry, eye twitching. “And who would tell him? You, his estranged father who kicked him out? Or his doting boyfriend whom he adores? Tell me, Henry. What is more important to you: building a relationship with your estranged son or shattering his romantic dreams by deliberately reneging on a viable deal?”

“Are ya fuckin’ threatenin’ me with my own goddamn son?”

“Is water wet?” He smirks. “Come now, Henry. Don’t you at least want grandchildren?”

He stops abruptly. The air appears chillier, at least between them. He tilts his head on its axis and allows the beast to filter through.

It comes out choppy, like static.

“Disappoint him as a father again, and I’ll make sure you eat through a straw for the rest of your days.”

Henry doesn’t seem like a man easily intimidated, but even he appears ruffled by Alastor’s abrupt about-face in demeanor. Just as well, he thinks.

They all eventually see the light.

He lurches for him, but Alastor is prepared. He kicks the desk, so the pistol slides off and away. He agilely whips around the desk. The knife is at his throat before he can even think of reaching it.

“The fuck is wrong with ya?” Henry chokes out. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ!”

Alastor laughs, and it’s a queer, pervasive, echoing sound. “Wrong deity. And everything, I’m afraid.” He slaps his hands down on the table, releasing him. “Now, I’m not going to pretend that I’m a paragon of virtue; I’m sure you’re already aware of my reputation.” He swiftly slithers to the door, ears pricking for any metal sounds. Alastor usually grants some grace at his departure, but alas. He revels in the upper hand, as untowardly gained as it were.

At this point, he can’t help it. “By the way, Henry.”

The man glares at him, rubbing his neck. “What?”

“Could’ve been worse!” He lowers his voice to a purr. “I could’ve taken him in front of you.”

The lamp narrowly misses his head. Like father, like son. “Get the fuck out, asshole.”

The revolver is back in his hands. “And Alastor?”

He curiously tilts his head, turning the knob.

“Fuck with me again, and I’ll have your guts for garters. I got no problem murderin’ my future son-in-law.”

Alastor smiles, edging his body out the door. Even so, he can’t seem to shake the guilt roiling in his stomach. Henry doesn’t seem to notice, which Alastor counts as a boon. He dismisses it, burrowing it deep down with the other useless emotions. He nods, theatrically bowing before shutting the door.

“Duly noted.”

* * *

Molly nudges her body up against his. She swings her legs up and tucks in on herself. He wraps an arm around her shoulders as they cuddle on the couch.

Two halves, reunited at long last.

“I like him,” she declares, and that’s so painfully her. Molly loves whatever he loves, and especially whatever, or _whoever_ makes him happy. She’s Angel’s baby sister, even if he was born seconds after her.

He twirls a lock of her hair. “Ain’t like I was gonna toss him out if ya didn’t.”

She pinches him, snorting as he yelps. “Fuck you, Tony. I’m _family_. It’d be fucked if ya didn’t take my opinion into consideration.”

Angel bites his lip as he looks away. He can’t bring himself to make eye contact when he softly confesses:

“He could be family too. Maybe. One day.”

Her voice is layered.

“Oh, Tony.”

He can’t bear to look at her, not now, but she places her palms on his cheeks, cupping them. It’s tender, and too much so. He blinks furiously and not for the first time, wishes that he’d been born with a sterner countenance.

Molly strokes his face as he breathes through his fit of nerves. When his breathing slows, she tries again.

She’s always trying. For him.

“Tell ya what. _When_ he’s a part of this family, I’ll let him toss Frankie out.”

Angel cracks a smile. “Deal.”

“No deal!” shouts an agitated voice from the loveseat. The twins snicker, shoulders shaking.

“Anyway, ya look good. Better than when,” she trails off. “Ya know.”

He does.

“Healthier.” She squishes his cheeks. “I missed that. Well, _we_ missed that.”

He snorts in disbelief at the last statement, but a lopsided smile grows on his face despite any misgivings.

“I’m spoiled. He spoils me.”

“An’ he should.” She lifts her hands from his face to cradle his, and he finally looks at her, properly. He’s memorized every freckle, the gentle curve of her face, and all the similarities and differences of their skins. Right now, however, he’s reminded of their mother, and his heart aches with the familiar contractions of love and loss.

He traces his fingers along her smaller hands. “D’ya think Mom would’ve liked him?”

“Tony. Mom would’ve _adored_ him.”

There’s a flicker of movement past Molly’s ear, and Angel catches it even though his vision blurs. Frankie is silent, but he nods curtly, once.

That’s it.

Angel doesn’t break down. Quite the opposite.

The needle pierces all the same even as it mends him. It’s patchwork and a bit shoddy, but little by little, it’s all coming back together.

* * *

Alastor saunters back into the living room, looking pleased as punch.

Angel crosses his arms, glaring at his boyfriend. “Ya done?”

“Just about!”

“How was he?” Angel asks, cocking his head. He scans his boyfriend’s body, patting him down and searching for exit wounds. Frankie slumps in his chair, groaning.

“Strip search your boyfriend somewhere else! Fuck, Tony!”

As apparent punishment for that outburst, Alastor pointedly grabs Angel’s hands and tugs them closer to his crotch.

“Missed a spot, darling,” he sing songs. Molly cackles as Frankie leaps to his feet, cursing. He storms off to the kitchen, likely grabbing more wine. Angel rolls his eyes. He snatches his hands back, but not before squeezing down the fat length of it. To his smug satisfaction, it thickens in his hand. Alastor quirks a brow. He angles his hips with cocksure confidence, and Angel’s heart skips at the noticeable outline of his dick.

Molly coughs politely. “You could stay for the night. Daddy”-Frankie shouts incoherently in the distance-“ain’t comin’ down until mornin’. It’s a long drive back, right?”

Even though everything in Angel is raring to go for round two, he judiciously decides that they should leave, lest they overstay their welcome. Normal families shoo out unwanted guests with passive-aggressive remarks (“Oh, look at the time”). His breaks out the firearms (“Get the fuck out, we’re tired”).

Alastor is just going to have to deal with blue balls.

Angel grins. “’Fraid not, Molls. Gotta get back before Husk eats Nuggie. He’s been bitchin’ about Al not cookin’ bacon for the past couple of months.”

Alastor sighs, catching the hint. He adjusts his trousers as surreptitiously as possible. “We tried this dreadful meat replacement aptly named ‘Seiten’. It’s beyond foul. Lately, it’s been fish and eggs for breakfast. Anyway, Angel’s right. It’d be best for our overall health, I surmise, to leave before reinforce-before we impose on your father further.”

Before she can object, he takes her hands in his and kisses her knuckles.

“It was lovely to meet you, my dear. Such a pleasure.” Alastor turns, calling over his shoulder, “And you, too, Frankie! Perhaps we can replicate this dinner again sometime. You’re both welcome in our humble abode.” He grins, revealing sharp canines.

“And please convey the invitation to your father. I’m sorry he had to retire early for the night.”

An awful pit grows and deepens in Angel’s stomach. He waits after they exchange goodbyes and after promising Molly he’d call and visit more often until they shuffle out into the night. He grabs Alastor’s shoulder, digging his colorless nails into the coat.

“Babe. Ya didn’t…do anythin’ to him, right? He’s still-”

Alastor stares at him, perplexed.

“Alive?”

Alastor pauses, his oxfords skidding to a stop in the wet grass. His glasses glint in the meager light emitted from the door fixtures. He tilts his head as if considering something.

He bursts out laughing.

Angel’s chest loosens. Thank god, he thinks. It’s accompanied by a twinge of annoyance, though.

“Jesus, Al. That ain’t funny. I wasn’t sure if,” he suddenly stops, speech and feet, and averts his eyes.

“Ya know.”

Alastor abruptly ceases laughing. Shock briefly flashes across his face, like a splash of ice water. It quickly disappears as he composes himself by burying those emotions yet again. That infuriates Angel; it always does.

The ensuing silence is telling, and more than a tad oppressive.

Alastor’s face is bricked off. It’s like trying to read a wall. Angel guesses that he must be panicking, somewhere deep down, but Alastor refuses to succumb to it. It’s likely a defense mechanism, and Angel is sure that it has some significant purpose, but he has no idea as to what. As much as they care for one another, they keep each other in the dark. Alastor once told him it was for protection and Angel understood, but good intentions killed his mother.

Seeing his father tonight, and witnessing his soul slowly eroding like the long extinguished light in his eyes was heartbreaking. As much as he viciously hates the man most of the time, Angel’s weak heart still aches for his family. The emotions tangle up and scramble inside him, twisting until they’re indistinguishable from the rest of the knots.

When inside becomes too overwhelming, Angel quiets his demons the only way he knows how. He’s been clean for years, but it’s a precarious tightrope act.

Much easier to fall than to keep balancing.

He came close once when Angel’s unwittingly ignorant mother fell victim to his father’s illicit dealings. To this day, Angel blames his father. His mother was a spitfire, just like him. If she knew, if she was privy to his father’s fuckery, then she might have had a fighting chance.

Instead, she died.

And Angel lived.

It should have happened differently, had he any say in the matter. But he didn’t. Not then.

Now, he just wants to be ready when it comes.

“I know jack shit about what ya do. Not the radio show, but the _other_ stuff. An’ I ain’t stupid. I know it has to do with Lucifer and Vox and maybe even Valentino.” He shuts his eyes. “I got the gist of what Val did when we were together. I know it wasn’t…”

Good, he finishes inwardly. If that isn’t the world’s biggest understatement.

Valentino never sugar-coated his business. In fact, he welcomed Angel into the fold. Angel, like everyone in Valentino’s life, had his uses. Though not a soldier, Angel served as transactional lubricant. He forces down nausea at the memory. As heinous and manipulative as that part of his life was, there were hardly any secrets.

This relationship brims with them.

Maybe Alastor just doesn’t want to share that part of his life with him. Maybe he will never fully trust Angel. Maybe it’s because he’s merely a placeholder for the right person to come along.

Maybe Angel is simply not worth the trouble.

Mired in all those maybes and doubts, Angel startles as familiar fingers lace through his own. His eyes flutter open. His lashes fan against a warm cheek. Alastor doesn’t quite kiss him, but their lips brush. An errant thought floats through his head. He wonders what they look like now. Two heads bowed together, connected by bated breath and secrets. Alastor curls his hand around Angel’s nape and coaxes him closer until they bridge the gap.

The stars twinkle above, their only witnesses in this solemn, fathomless night.

When Alastor pulls away, he’s breathless. “We’ll talk in the car.”

“Promise?”

Angel holds out his pinky. Alastor sighs, trying to hide his burgeoning smile behind his hand.

He fails. Miserably.

He loops his smallest finger around Angel’s. 

“Promise.”

* * *

They walk along the property’s edge, meandering and wasting time before heading back to the car.

It’s a cool night, and the forest beckons.

They resist the siren song, but just barely. Instead, they skirt the perimeter, where the overgrowth spills out into concrete; where ruinous cracks in the finely cultivated path expose the yielding of man to nature. Even though Angel professes to be a city boy, he feels most at home in the wilderness. Every fiber of his being thrums, alive and unencumbered, when he’s out there.

Where he can shed his skin.

The pebbles grind into gravel as Alastor halts. He places his palm on the crook of his elbow, where Angel’s fingers clutch.

“Did you want to visit your mother? We can make a stop anywhere you’d like on the way home.”

Angel closes his eyes and inhales the crisp air.

The wind buffets their backs before colliding with the boughs, swirling sinuously around their bodies. It carries the leaves and dust in a cradling, rocking motion.

A bassinet breeze.

“No need.” The luminous world blinks into view. He smiles, staring up at the cloudless, star-bright sky.

“She’s here.”

Alastor doesn’t say anything. Angel counts his blessings. Ecclesiastical malarkey, he’d once called it.

Angel begs to differ.

He’ll get there, one day. And he’ll see his mother again. He closes his eyes as the breeze lifts and combs through his hair in achingly familiar caresses.

Molly is right.

He knows she’ll love Alastor.

Just as much as he does.

* * *

A couple of hours pass.

They pull off to the side of the road. Alastor shifts the car into park. He exits, rounding around the front to open Angel’s door. They lean back on the hood, the warmth under their bottoms a welcome sensation after hours of sitting.

They watch the stars.

“Do you think less of me, now?”

Angel leans into the downy fabric of Alastor’s coat. He rests his head on his shoulder.

“No. I love you.”

Alastor chuckles softly. The slight shifting of the coat tickles his cheek. “Not a wise decision.”

Angel concurs. “Nah, it ain’t.” He nuzzles his cold cheek onto Alastor’s, reveling in his wince. “But you’re stuck with me, babe. Get used to it.”

They take a moment to gaze up at the sea of stars. They’re beautiful, don’t get them wrong. But there’s a certain je ne sais quoi that keeps them tethered to this earthly shelter instead of floating amongst them. The reason, at least for Angel, sits beside him, chattering with every pulse of autumn wind.

It’s simply incomparable.

“Home,” Alastor says, kissing down his shoulder. The word travels further, nestling in the chambers of his heart; journeying to wherever Alastor may go.

No place like it.

* * *

“How’d it go?”

“Horrible. Conversation was stiffer than Al’s dick.”

“His father almost killed me!”

“What the fuck-”

“Oh, Husker! You put it up!”

Alastor gleefully claps his hands, cheerfully gazing up at the recently hung portrait. Angel stares, mouth agape, a splitting image of his visage in the photograph.

“Thank fuckin’ Niff for that. Goddammit. Pervy little goblin-”

“Al. What in the flyin’ fuck.”

The man in question spins around, arms outstretched.

“Let’s give your family a ring, shall we? It’s high time we return the favor!” He wraps his arms around their shoulders, pulling them close.

“Why, this calls for a jamboree!”

Husk groans, Angel blinks, and Alastor knocks their heads together.

“Just one, big, dysfunctional family!”

At that, Angel can’t help but crack a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Next: Halloween or Idiots Being Idiots (working titles), whichever gets finished and edited first. (Rated E and most likely M, respectively)
> 
> 2\. Special thanks to R who informed me that revolvers don't incriminatingly eject shells, and are most likely the handgun of choice for gang-related members. 
> 
> 3\. Thank you for reading. You are all fantastic, especially for bearing with me.


End file.
